The Cedar Cutter (23 page)

‘It's the last one, Slinger. The last one for me. After this no more. I'm done with the cutting.'

‘Keep your promises till she's down.'

‘You'll take nothing down.' The words cut through the silence like a gunshot. ‘Land's been granted. On your way.'

A scrawny man, his faced seamed by the years and weather, stood his ground, although his feet shifted in the leaf litter, his eyes sliding from side to side as if waiting for something, someone.

Carrick picked up the sound of scuffed undergrowth and then it was gone. He tossed a glance over his shoulder, locked eyes with Slinger and frowned. Slinger inclined his head in the direction of the creek and from the corner of his eye Carrick caught a woollen-clad arm and gloved hand holding a pistol, barely discernible through the trees. Not Billy Boy or Old Pella. Not any native wearing a jacket made of wool. Old Pella's white men sure enough.

The man sniffed the air, peered around and then his shoulders dropped, looking for all the world as though he was taking a stroll in the park. ‘So you'll be on your way?'

Not a chance, not until he knew what was going on. ‘You say the land's granted?'

‘What business is it of yours?'

‘Just curiosity. So we know to stay away.' Until the men moved on and then he and Slinger would be in and out so fast the idiot wouldn't know what had hit him.

‘What're you doing here?'

‘A bit of cutting up around the area.'

‘Not anymore. Not this part—thousand acres all told. From the edge of the Wyong River right through the Yarramalong Valley floor and up to the rise.' He gestured to the hills framing the valley. ‘No more cutting. I'm overseeing the property.' His bark of sharp, derogatory laughter echoed in the valley and faded until only the sounds of the birds and the rustle of the wind remained.

‘Who's bought the land?'

‘What's it to you?'

‘Just curious. It's good land, especially with the river. Not much timber on it though.'

‘Which is why you'll not be cutting this bugger down.'

‘We'll be on our way, then.' Carrick turned, grabbed the sleeve of Slinger's chequered shirt and towed him down the track.

‘What's the matter with you? Losing your nerve? We could've done with him and no one would be any the wiser. Taken the tree before they even knew he was missing.'

‘Think, Slinger. Think and look around. There's two horses tethered over there, saddled. So there's another man around. Not a lot of gear. They're not planning on being here for long.' As usual Old Pella was right. How the man managed to know what was going on, or even travel so far, he'd never understand.

Slinger curled his lip. ‘And you're telling me we couldn't take out two men?'

‘Not when one of them has a gun trained on our backs.' And he had no intention of ending up behind bars. He was going home, back to Ireland. Behind bars after that maybe, though not before he'd done what he intended.

Slinger whipped around and froze as the barrel of the shotgun caught in the shaft of sunlight.

‘Come on. Let's go. It's not a problem. Let them think we've gone. Billy Boy and Old Pella'll let us know when these fools have left and we can be in and out before they have time to do anything about it.'

They edged up the track.

‘What d'you reckon they're up to?'

‘Just like Old Pella said, someone's bought the land and they're marking it out, making it their own. You heard the bloke, he's the overseer.'

‘Then who's the idiot with the gun? If they've got nothing to hide then what're they so tetchy about?'

‘City folk want it all for themselves. This is my tree and I'll be havin' it. I've waited too long for this one.'

‘She's a big bugger. How long do you reckon it'll take us to get it down?'

‘Believe me now, do you?'

Slinger grunted. ‘We'll get it down quick enough, a week, bit more maybe. It's the sawing'll take time unless we get some help.'

‘I'm not for getting help. I reckon we go back to Wollombi, pick up the rest of our gear and some supplies, then come back in. Those two'll be gone by then. They're not cutters, they won't touch it, and we can get to it.'

‘And when they come back and find the tree gone?'

‘We'll be gone. You're going north and I'll be on my way to Sydney for a boat to take me home.'

‘Might be easier just to put a bullet in them and bury them.'

‘No, it wouldn't, you fool. Someone knows they're here and I for one have no intention of swinging. Not before I make it home. We'll go back to Wollombi, wait it out for a few days then come back and take another look, make sure they've gone before we bring the gear in.'

Roisin hurried down the street from the school, calling a morning greeting here and there and waving to some of the children as they headed for the school gate. People acknowledged her, glancing in her direction, nodding as she passed, greeting her by name as though she belonged in the town. It gave her a feeling of security and pride to be recognised as the local dressmaker.

And Jane, what a godsend. What luck to find someone with such skill. Quite why Jane hadn't set up her own business, Roisin had no idea. If Sydney had so many women running businesses then why couldn't Wollombi? Maisie and Elsie ran the inn and the General Store. With Jane's help she could imagine a whole emporium selling haberdashery, small items, buttons and silk, lace and bolts of material. And those wonderful ladies' fashion papers Mrs Winchester had shown her, available for people to browse through. Then the orders would come flooding in. She might even have to expand further. For the time being though she intended to concentrate on the business in hand. Mrs Winchester's evening dress was without a doubt her finest achievement. And now to make Lady Alice happy.

She ducked around the back of the street, running alongside the school, and knocked on the door of the storehouse. After a moment or two the heavy wooden doors swung open, bringing the stench of lanolin and wet fleece.

‘Good morning.'

‘Morning. What can I do for you?' A red-faced man with a purple nose, thick shoulders and a short bull-like neck, lumbered from behind a tower of baled fleece.

‘Elsie, Mrs Sullivan, said if I called in you might be able to sell me some fleece.'

‘Earmarked for Sydney. All baled and ready.' He sucked on his pipe, adding a whiff of damp tobacco to the already pungent air.

‘Would you have any offcuts I could purchase?'

‘Offcuts? Dags, you mean?'

‘I need a small amount of fleece for a project I'm working on.' No need to go into explicit detail. It wasn't something a man, any man, needed to know about.

He sighed and sent a cloud of smoke wreathing around her face. ‘Only the cleanings there.' He tossed his head at a stinking pile in the corner of the room. ‘Help yourself.'

‘I'll pay you for it.'

‘We could sort it another way.' He took a step closer to her, the stench of tobacco, sweat and wet sheep making her gorge rise. ‘I'll call in one afternoon after I finish up here.'

Call in. What was he talking about? Roisin bent down and picked through the smelly pile of offcuts, gathering several handfuls. ‘I'd like this please.'

‘It's all yours.'

She slipped the fleece inside the bag she carried over her arm. ‘Please let me give you something for it.'

‘Nah.' He sniffed. ‘Now Carrick and his cutters have gone, you'll be a bit lonely like. Can't be having that.' He sucked on his pipe and sent a cloud of smoke swirling around her face, then reached out his hand.

She stepped back. What was he thinking? ‘Let me pay you for it.' She shuddered, produced a shilling from her pocket and extended her gloved hand.

‘Cheap at 'arf the price.' He wiped his hand over his nose and gave her a lecherous wink.

Surely the man didn't think … ‘Well, thank you. Thank you very much.'

He grunted and sucked on his pipe again. ‘What time do you open, then?'

‘Open?'

‘Open for business of a night time?'

‘How dare you!' She turned on her heel and bolted down the street, her stomach twisting and her bag at arm's length to avoid inhaling the foul-smelling fleece and the equally foul insinuations the horrid man had made.

As soon as Roisin rounded the corner, Jane dropped her broom and came running into the street.

‘Oh, Jane, I'm so pleased you're here. We have to talk. The most awful thing has just happened.' Nothing could be more important than the dreadful, smelly man in the wool store.

‘Lady Alice is here already.'

‘She's earlier than I expected.' Would nothing go right today?

‘I think she's very keen. She was a little annoyed you weren't at home when she called. I've given her a cup of tea and she's waiting, tapping her foot and sighing.'

Roisin eased the pins from her hat and slipped her gloves off as she made her way along the flagstone path. She'd have to tread very carefully. Grace Winchester was lucky to have been granted such a perfect figure, and although she was sure she could help Lady Alice, she wasn't sure how far she could push her. What would she say when she suggested padding her bosom?

Sucking in a deep breath, she shrugged out of her jacket and closed the door behind her blessing Carrick and the never-ending woodpile that kept the house cosy. Lady Alice sat perched in front of the fire, her fingers fiddling with the handles of the carpetbag resting in her lap. Her dress no doubt.

Dear God, please let the dress be a better colour than her other clothes. She could adjust it, remake it, just not change the colour, no matter what ideas Jane might have about dyeing lace with garden vegetables. And no amount of discreet padding would help.

‘Good morning, Lady Alice. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, I had to take my son to school.'

‘Your son. How delightful, I didn't know you had a son.'

‘He's a bit of a handful sometimes, but I wouldn't part with him for the world. You know what children are like.'

‘Sadly, I don't. The good lord hasn't seen fit to bless me with children. I sometimes think I have left it all too late. I was hopeful the change in climate, the sea journey …' She lifted her shoulders then let them drop with a resigned sigh. ‘I was hopeful that the country air might make a difference. It doesn't seem to be the case. I'm sorry, it is not something I should bore you with.'

Roisin set her hat on the table, then smoothed her hair. She could feel Lady Alice's gaze burning a hole in her back so she turned with a bright smile. The woman needed a large dose of confidence and she intended to provide it.

‘The truth is I'm not attractive to my husband. I do not seem to have the vivacity that Grace has.' Lady Alice delved into her carpetbag and produced a bundle wrapped in an Indian silk shawl.

Roisin reached out and took the bundle from Lady Alice's lap. ‘Why don't you show me your dress?'

‘I can never compete with Grace, she is so …' Her face flushed and she gestured helplessly.

Roisin lifted the bundle to the table. If the dress had something to recommend it she could work with that. Otherwise, she'd no idea what she'd do.

‘I had the dress made in Sydney. I feel I have made a mistake. It is not a colour I'd normally wear.'

Roisin's heart sank. It would be another disaster. Just how many overskirts and embellishments could she attach to an evening dress? She unwrapped the shawl and gasped.

‘You see what I mean. I fear I have been led astray.'

‘Lady Alice, not at all.' She shook out the teal-coloured silk. ‘It's delightful.' This she could work with. The colour was brilliant, like a peacock's tail. The scooped neck and the short sleeves were perfect. The ruching across the front had obviously been inserted to draw the eye away from Lady Alice's minute attributes.